


The Language of Flowers

by Rhiannon_A_Christy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Victorian, F/M, Sherlolly - Freeform, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-14
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-10-04 20:29:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10288904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhiannon_A_Christy/pseuds/Rhiannon_A_Christy
Summary: Sherlock is brought in to solve the murders of The Grim's Gardener, a violent criminal leaving a string of dead in his wake. Little seems to connect these acts of hate beyond a bouquet of flowers left like a tribute to the victim. This puzzle leads him to the steps of Molly Blakesley, nee Hooper, a wealthy young widow and owner of a flower shop.





	1. Preface

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IdrisSmith](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IdrisSmith/gifts).



Molly Blakesley, nee Hooper, was the sort of woman who preferred the company of her plants to that of people. This was something her father greatly despaired of, worrying his only daughter would never find a husband. This was of course not something that could be tolerated by someone in their position. The Hoopers were not poor, but they also were not very wealthy. Their son had married respectably, a woman of title if not money. Their hope though was on their daughter, a fine young woman that turned several heads.

For her part, Molly would have lived just fine as a spinster, spending her days tending her flowers and visiting her nieces and nephews. This had never gone over well with her father; “It isn’t respectable being a spinster when one is poor.” He had always painted a grim world for her, where she ended up either in the poor or whore house. So when the chance came to marry off his daughter, Mr. Steven Hooper took it.

Thomas Blakesley was a wealthy gentleman of a proper, if young, age. Only five years Molly’s senior, Thomas Blakesley was one of London’s youngest wealthy men. All of society knew that he had his pick of London’s ladies, but his eyes were only ever set on the quiet Miss Molly Hooper.

The engagement had only lasted a few months before the two were married. Something that had tongues wagging all over town. There were only ever two reasons a wedding was rushed; if the groom was going to war or the bride was already compromised. As Mr. Blakesley had never shown any inclination towards the army, it was assumed that Miss Hooper was already expecting. This of course didn’t stop every well to do citizen from attending the wedding. In fact it drew many back from the country just to witness it. Everyone wanted the ability to say that they had seen the signs, the slight puffiness around her cheeks and the ill-fit of her dress, when the little one arrived. One can imagine the disappointment when months went by and it became clear that there was no child.

Mr. and Mrs. Blakesley had a quiet and uneventful marriage. Thomas was away much of the time because of his job, and when he was home the two were rarely seen in public together. Rumors abounded throughout London’s society. Some believed that Mr. Blakesley had been keeping a mistress in the country, others that Mrs. Blakesley was most assuredly a cold woman. The few public appearances, such as at Lady Holmes’ annual Christmas Ball, only fed into these rumors. There was always a clear indifference between the two. Whatever the affection between them, there seemed to be no discord in their marriage. Molly appeared perfectly happy, spending her days tending to the flower shop bought for her by her husband.

Thoughts of Mrs. Blakesley’s cool demeanor filled everyone’s minds as the woman in question stood over her husband’s grave.

The fine casket being lowered into the ground was empty, having no body to fill it. Mr. Thomas Blakesley had been in Scotland on one of his business trips. The particulars of the incident were unknown, only that on a morning he left the inn he had been residing in and headed for the cliffs. The detective that had arrived on scene postulated that as there had been heavy rains the night before, Mr. Blakesley had simply stepped too close to the cliff edge and slipped, falling to his death. No body had been found, but this was blamed on the rushing waters. One witness claimed there had been a woman with him, but as no evidence existed of the woman beyond the single witness, the claim was dismissed.

Molly quietly tossed a handful of dirt on the empty casket and turned around. Waiting only a few steps away were her parents. She took her father’s arm, only half listening to her mother prattle on.

“Everything shall be fine, my Dear, your Thomas left you very well off. Unlike poor Mrs. Williams. When her husband up and died on her two years ago he left her with nothing, not a cent! Poor dear, she is washing clothes now just to feed her children. Not that you have to worry about such a thing, your Thomas was a smart man. And a wealthy widow is a respectable occupation.” Mrs. Hooper followed a single step behind her husband and daughter, wildly waving about a fine silk hankie as she spoke.

“Yes, Mother.” Molly clung a bit tighter to her father. She really didn’t feel up to socializing, but must needs and all that. She would be thankful when they would all leave her alone and she could get back to her shop.


	2. Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock takes on the case of "The Grim's Gardener" and Molly meets with a friend for tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note to readers. In this chapter there is a brief mention of rape, nothing explicit at all. Also, there will be an examination of a corpse that will be a bit detailed. So, if either will bother you I would advise that you skip the whole second section, which will start at the divider just after: “Mary…” and ends after the next divider, the third section starting at: “Molly set her spoon aside and lifted the delicate cup to her lips.”
> 
> Please, I do not want anyone upset because of something they read. I understand how such things can affect a person. So be safe, and enjoy.

 

    

 

  Sherlock picked up paper after paper from a pile beside his chair. Mrs Hudson kept bringing them to him in the mornings as though they had anything of interest in them. As was normal, he had allowed them to accumulate until they were toppling over into the walkway. He wouldn’t even be looking through them now if he hadn’t been so bored. He sighed and tossed another paper away. Nothing but gossip and death announcements.

 

  A gentle hand picked the paper up, smoothing it out and carefully folding it back up.

 

  “Sherlock, this is dated almost nine months ago!” The paper crinkled in the delicate gloved hand as it was vigorously shaken in the direction of the detective. A detective that made only the barest efforts to look up from his task and acknowledge his visitor. Not that she expected anything different from the man.

 

  “Is it? Of little consequence, really. It’s nothing more than that awful gossip paper Mrs Hudson insists on thrusting upon me.” Sherlock tossed another of the offending things across the room. This one ending up resting perfectly behind the gate of his hearth. “Hello, Mary. John has a patient again I see.”

 

 “Mr Bowen’s bowels are acting up again.” With a shake of her head she placed the paper down on a side table. Discussing the merits of keeping up with the world around you with Sherlock Holmes was an exercise in folly. Still, it was terribly amusing and of more interest than sitting quietly in her garden. Without waiting for an invitation, she sat down in the chair before Sherlock and toed the scattered pile of papers.

 

  “I would expect you could find a lot useful when it comes to gossip.”

 

  “Please, the most published in these are announcements of weddings and births. Suspect I’ll keep the one with the announcement of your bundle of joy.” Sherlock looked up and smiled widely at the tick swell of his friend’s middle. It would be her second, a boy this time if he was right. His eyes slid to the paper placed on the tale, his hand sweeping out to gesture at it.

 

  “And what knowledge am I to gain by the death announcement of some wealthy fool? That the man was an idiot? Anyone can see that. Most likely even his wife.” He rolled his eyes and continued with his task. “He really shouldn’t have been having an affair.”

 

  “And how do you figure that one out?” Mary leaned further back into the chair. She had quite forgotten how uncomfortable pregnancy was, Rosie having been born five years ago now.

 

  “Mysterious death, unexplained events, wife never contacted my services. Easy.” He huffed and tossed another paper into the fire. Another death announcement, boring.

 

  “And you are not going to the authorities on this?” Mary laughed at the look of utter contempt on Sherlock’s face. It was a look she was familiar with when mention came of Scotland Yard.

 

  “The man was a fool. I don’t deal with fools.” Tiring of the mass of papers, he stood from the floor and headed for the window. A slight pang struck him behind the knees. He was getting too old to be sitting on the floor for any length of time. “Please tell me that you have something interesting for me?”

 

  “Must I have a case for you in order to visit?” Mary folded her hands over the swell of her belly. She was used to her friend’s abrupt, and often cool behavior. She knew it was a holdover from growing up with that brother of his.

 

  “No, but it would be helpful.” Pulling apart the curtains, Sherlock’s eyes followed the movement of the man on the pavement below. A slow smile spread across his face. Perhaps his day wasn’t lost.

 

  “Contrary to what you believe, we do not exist to entertain you.” This was something Mary had been working with him on. Slowly, but surely, Sherlock Holmes was learning how to behave in polite company. At least when it suited him.

 

  “Pity, though it seems as though your services are unneeded now.” As he spoke the door to the flat opened, admitting a single man. “And what do you have for me, Lestrade? A beheading, drowning, shooting, anything more interesting than a lost cat?”

 

  “A murder actually, well several.” Lestrade stepped fully into the room, his eyes landing on the woman in the chair. “Oh, good day, Mrs Watson.”

 

  “Good day, Detective. You spoke of murder? Would this by any chance be the Conservatory Murders?” Mary glanced over at Sherlock from the corner of her eye and bit down on her lips. He, of course, did not disappoint.

 

  Sherlock whirled around to face the room. He had not heard of these so called, conservatory murders. Not from any paper or from the detective inspector himself. He glared down at Mary, just daring her to gloat.

 

  “Uh, yes, we believe so. Same as before, the victim found dead with a bunch of flowers on her chest.” Lestrade jolted back at the look of the other man. It was a rare sight to see Sherlock Holmes wrongfooted.

 

  “Why have I not heard of this… how have you?” Sherlock looked incredulous at the news. It was true that he looked over simple murders, but a serial murderer… this he should have heard about.

 

  “It’s not surprising, Sherlock.” Mary smirked at the man in front of her. “They are calling the murderer The Grimm’s Gardener.”       

 

  “I have the same question, Mrs Watson. How do you know this? Scotland Yard has yet to release any information regarding these cases.” Lestrade crossed his arms over his chest. He was used to Sherlock having foreknowledge of a case, but a mere civilian such as Mrs Watson…

 

  “It pays to listen to gossip.” Mary laughed when Sherlock rolled his eyes.

 

  “Yes, Mary, I see you’ve made your point. Lestrade, do get on with yours before our “Gardener” decides to strike again.” With a flourish, he seated himself in his chair, his fingers steepled under his chin.

 

  “Right.” Lestrade took another step inside, his fingers playing with the brim of his hat. He hated when Sherlock looked at him like that. “About a fortnight ago a young woman was found dead in her bed by her husband.”

 

  “From more than natural causes I would guess.” Sherlock waved the detective on when he received a glare for his interruption.    

 

  “Strangled with her own stockings. She was arranged completely bare… oh begging your pardon, Ma’am.” Lestrade’s cheeks flushed pink when he remembered that a lady was in their presence.

 

  “I do have a body, Detective Inspector. I know what one looks like unclothed.” Mary stopped herself from rolling her eyes again. If the man before then had known the sort of things she had been up to when she was younger, he would probably faint.

 

  “Of course.” Lestrade rubbed the back of his neck before turning back to Sherlock. “Well, she was arranged in her bed with a bouquet of flowers placed on her chest.”

 

  “A message from a scorned lover perhaps?” Sherlock’s voice was sharp. If this turned out to be another case filled with simpleminded fools carrying on love affairs he would have to resort to shooting something. And he promised Mrs Hudson that he wouldn’t put any more holes in her walls.

 

  “We thought so until two days later. Another woman was found in her bed.”

 

  Sherlock pressed his lips together, waiting for the detective to continue. When he simply stared down at him, he sighed. “Same method?”

 

  “No, she had been drowned before being placed in her bed, flowers and all.” Lestrade could still picture the woman nestled in the wet sheets, the flowers, both real and silk, sticking to her bare breasts. Her eyes had been opened wide, bugging out from their sockets in terror and pain.

 

  “So, two cases, or three I would guess since you are here, that involve flowers.” It was becoming a little more interesting, he would admit.

 

  “Four actually. The third was found just on Saturday.” Another woman he would be unable to remove from his memory.

 

  “And each of them were killed differently?” And a little more now…

 

  “One shot, and the one from this morning had her head bashed in.” Lestrade swallowed thickly. He had been with Scotland Yard for years, had seen great horrors in his time, and he still felt sick at what people could do to each other.

 

  “Interesting.” Murderers rarely ever deviated in methods, preferring to stick to one with every victim. For the murders to be connected meant that this was either a group of murderers, or one very unstable man.

 

  “So, you’ll take it?” Lestrade looked hopeful. The case was new, this was true, but he feared how many more would be killed before they could find the connection.

 

  “It would alleviate the boredom.” Sherlock shrugged a shoulder and dropped his hands from his chin. “The forth body is in the morgue?”

 

  “Yes, I’ve also made sure that the crime scene has been preserved for you.” Lestrade took a step back, making room for Sherlock to rise from his chair.

 

  “Excellent. You can fill me in on any other details on the way.” A small smile made its way across Sherlock’s face, but was quickly gone.

 

  “Of course, Good day.” Lestrade bowed his head towards Mrs Watson, placed his hat back upon his head, and left.

 

  Mary waited until she could hear the door below close before standing. Though with a bit of difficultly. Sherlock stepped in front of her, one fine brow raised.

 

  “You can’t expect me to allow you to join me?” Sherlock glanced down to the swell of Mary’s belly, ill-concealed by the pregnancy corset she wore.

 

  “If anything about this baby or John passes your lips, I will not hesitate to bash your head in.” Mary placed her hands on her hips. “You know I could be of help. We are just going to view a body, not chase after a murderer.”

 

  “Mary…”

 

  “Shut up, Sherlock. If you don’t allow me to go I shall shoot you again. Only this time in the gut.” As though to prove her point, Mary slipped one hand within the folds of her dress where she kept a small derringer. A wedding present from the man she was currently threatening.

 

  “Sometimes I wonder why I endure your presence.” Carefully, he reached out and removed her hand from her dress. After giving a soft squeeze he dropped it and stepped back.

 

  “Because you love me, and you know I’m better than John.” Gathering up her cloak, Mary strode to the door. “Now come on, the game, as they say, is afoot!”

 

  “Mary…”

 

* * *

 

 

The morgue was a dark, scarcely lit place, and was no place one expected to find a pregnant woman. Sherlock followed Mary in, knowing that he would soon hear of it from her husband.

 

  “This is the body here. A Mrs Dianne Dupin.” Lestrade walked up to the covered body and reached for the sheet before stopping. He turned towards Mrs Watson, a soft and concerned look on his face. “I beg your pardon Ma’am, but you may wish to leave for this bit.”

 

  “I really wish you would stop ‘begging my pardon.’ I’m not some delicate flower. Now get on with it.” Mary held back a huff of frustration when the detective looked to Sherlock for permission. From the corner of her eye she could see the eye roll of her friend, as well as the slight nod for the man to continue. It really was bothersome dealing with men, mostly when she was pregnant.

 

  Swallowing, Lestrade reached over with both hands and removed the stained sheet from the body. The whole room seemed to grow quieter when the condition of the young woman was revealed. Mrs Dupin could hardly be recognized as a human beyond anything above her shoulders. Her head resembled a jumble of meat and bone, the kind found slopped out back of the butcher’s.

 

  “Is the rest of her intact?” Sherlock leaned over and used a single gloved finger to shift a bit of bone. Lestrade looked as though he would be sick.

 

  “There are marks around her wrists that suggest she had been restrained.” Carefully, he lifted one of the body’s arms. Indeed, around the delicate wrist of Mrs Dupin was a think, red grove that could have only been made with rope.

 

  “Is there evidence that she has been forced?” Mary had to admit that the body was a pretty gruesome sight, but she had seen worse in her time.

 

  “I’m not sure what you mean, I doubt she willingly allowed herself to be tied up.” Lestrade looked at Mrs Watson as though she had lost her mind.

 

  “I suddenly feel sorry for you, Lestrade.” Sherlock gave a small smirk, one that died when Mary tapped him on the arm.

 

  “Oh, I believe we will be talking about that later.” Mary shook her head when Sherlock just raised his chin and pursed his lips. She had known that he had to be a bit more adventurous in more than his work. 

 

  She headed towards the end of the table, all thoughts of frivolity out of her mind. She placed a single hand around the curve of the woman’s ankle and whispered a quiet apology to the corpse. She turned and looked at Lestrade with a straight face.

 

  “I beg your pardon, Sir, but you may wish to turn away.”

 

  Lestrade watched as Mrs Watson lifted up the bottom of the sheet, his face turning bright red. “What is she --- is she…” He quickly turned away.

 

  “Mary?” Sherlock’s voice was soft, almost gentle as he waited on the woman to confirm or not her fears.

 

  “We can rule that out thankfully.” Mary placed the sheet back over the bare legs, a silent prayer for the poor woman on her lips. The murder was no less horrid, but at least Mrs Dupin had been spared that particular torture.

 

  “She was probably restrained to make things easier.” Sherlock spoke to the back of the Detective Inspector’s head. “Did any of the other victims have marks on their wrists?”

 

  “No, this is the first one.” Lestrade turned around slowly, making sure that Mrs Watson had replaced the sheet.

 

  “Hmm, he’s either getting angrier or smarter.” Finished with the body, Sherlock covered it back up and used the side of the sheet to clean off the gore from his glove.

 

  “How can you be sure it is a man?” Not that Lestrade could see a woman committing such a crime, but all avenues needed to be explored.

 

  “Women can be violent, even more so than men. This though, this speaks of calculation. Women are passionate, this is cold.” Slipping his hand into his pocket he fingered the fob watch inside. Privately he amended his statement. For some women could be both.

 

  Noticing the distant look on her friend’s face, Mary left the end of the table to stand beside Sherlock.

 

  “You said the body was found with flowers?” Her question had the desired effect. Sherlock shook himself, his eyes clearing as he focused back on the case at hand.

 

  “Oh, yes. Here.” Lestrade picked up a large bouquet of flowers off the table and handed them to Sherlock. “We have the others back at the Yard if you need them.”

 

  Sherlock took the bouquet, turned, and headed towards the doors. “Yes, thank you. Have all the notes and prints sent to 221 before the day’s end. Come on, Mary, there’s work to be done.”

 

* * *

 

 

  Molly set her spoon aside and lifted the delicate cup to her lips. The scent of the warm tea filled her nose and helped calm her nerves.

 

  “I am unsure if their staring is due outrageousness of your behavior, or the company you keep.” The woman across from Molly met several of the eyes of those around them, daring them to make comment.

 

  She was not the sort of woman one normally found in Alice’s Tea Room. Her dress was cut just a little too low at the breast, her hat had a few too many feathers, and she dared to paint her lips a deep crimson. She toed the line when it came to propriety, but no one would think to turn a woman as rich as she away. This was why on that dreary afternoon, Alice’s played host to London’s most scandalous pair.

 

  “I am sure both are a topic of conversation.” Molly sighed and set her cup back on the table. She looked out towards the street and frowned. “It is raining again.”

 

  “It will be good for your flowers. Your water barrels will be filled to the brim.” The woman sent a rather salacious wink to an older lady shaking her head at the pair. The Window and the Whore, what talk there would be. She laughed when the old woman gasped and turned away.

 

  “They are always filled, and it is always raining.” Ignoring her companion’s behavior, Molly bit into one of the small sandwiches on display before them.

 

  “Surely you are not bothered by what they are saying? Molly, dear, they are no more than insects crawling feebly through their petty existence.” She sneered at a particularly loud, fat woman two tables away. She could hear the bitter words the woman was spitting, claiming to feel for the poor widow who had lost her mind. For surely only the insane could flout tradition like Molly did.

 

  Why, to be out socializing in her Widow’s Weeds when she should be locked away at home grieving over her dearly departed husband. The thought of it!

 

  “Oh, my dear friend, you never fail to make me smile.” Molly dusted off the crumbs from her fingers. “Though no, I pay no attention to what they say. I have been subject of talk since I was a child.”

 

  The woman set her cup down, eyes going straight to her friend’s middle. “You are not…”

 

  Molly laughed and shook her head. “No, Tom and I hadn’t been together for several months before his death. I would be as big as a house now should it be Tom’s.” She held a finger up to stall her friend. “And despite your efforts, I have not lain with another. Even if I had the desire to, all the men in my acquaintance are too much the gentleman. Not one of them would even think of touching me out of the bonds of marriage.”

 

  “Oh, my dear, they think about it. But you are right, they wouldn’t act on it.” The woman shook her head. If a woman was poor she could be treated as a whore without guilt, but if she was rich… to touch her would be a sin. It had little to do with morals, and everything to do with money. She knew that as soon as her friend’s years of mourning was up, every man, young and old, would be at her door with a ring.

 

  “Do you think we could talk about something else? I have no stomach for the conversation of men.” Molly gazed out once more at the street and sighed.

 

  “Then shall we speak of fashion and the newest trend in hats?” The woman laughed when Molly rolled her eyes.

 

  “Only if you strangle me afterward.” Molly shook her head. Her mother had tried to bring her up right. Teach her to speak only when spoken to, and then only about the weather and fashion. It was all for naught though, as Molly was that wholly feared thing, a woman of independent thought.

 

  “Now there is a topic of conversation. I have it on good authority that the Grim’s Gardener has struck again.” The woman put no effort into keeping her voice down. If they wished to eavesdrop, let them. They may not like what they hear though.

 

  “Another woman?” Molly’s heart jolted at the news. This would make for four in the past fortnight.

 

  “Mmm, a Mrs Dupin.”

 

  “Dianne?” Molly’s hands shook as she clasped them in her lap.

 

  “I take it you knew her?” The woman reached over and offered her hand. Molly took it, but only gave it a squeeze before letting go.

 

  “We knew each other as children.” Molly pressed a hand to her forehead. “I thought this had ended.”

 

  The woman stood and walked around to Molly, taking the smaller woman into her arms. She ignored all the pitying stares her friend received, and simply helped her stand from her seat.

 

  “Come on, you need to be among your flowers.”

 

  Molly nodded and allowed her friend to escort her all the way back to her flower shop. It never stopped raining.

 

* * *

 

 

  Sherlock leaned over the table in his study, diligently at work. He could hear Mrs Hudson below, visiting with an old friend that had come to call. But he let the sound fade into the background. Mary had left some hours ago, wishing to be home when John arrived. He had been had at work since.

 

  “Mary said you would be at it.” John walked into the study with a small basket, which he placed beside Sherlock on the table. “Here, Mary told me to make sure you ate.”

 

  Sherlock gave a glance at the basket. Roast chicken, a couple of cold roast sandwiches, half a loaf of bread, and a bit of cheese if he deduced right. Nothing that would spoil too soon.

 

  “I’m in the middle of a case, John.” Sherlock untied the ribbon around one of the bunches of flowers. The bouquet was comprised of both fresh and silk millinery flowers.

 

  “That is why she sent along this with me.” He opened the basket and held out a sandwich to his stubborn friend. “It is best that you eat it, because you know she will come over if you don’t.”

 

  Sherlock groaned, tossed aside the ribbon and took the offered food. Sadly, his friend was right. Mary had a way of barging into one’s life and taking over, and in the end you never think to complain.

 

  “Do learn to control your wife.” He unwrapped the sandwich and took a bite.

 

  “You wouldn’t enjoy that any more than I would. You adore her as she is.” John laughed at his friend’s face.

 

  He looked down at the bits of wilting and dried flowers on the table. “Have you found anything yet?”

 

  “No, there doesn’t seem to be anything special about the flowers.” Sherlock reached out and pushed a set of photographs across the table. “There is little to connect the murders. Each woman was killed differently, and each of differing societal statuses.”

 

  John looked through the three prints supplied. On the back of each was written a name:

 

_Temperance Cain, 21, Married_

_Isidora Tey, 30, Betrothed_

_Laraine Hammett, 45, Unmarried_

 

  “Mary said there was another one this morning?” He placed the prints back on the table and leaned against it.

 

  “A Mrs Dianne Dupin. She was thirty-five. Had her head completely beaten in. Besides rope marks on her wrists there were no other markings, and no sign of violation.” Sherlock slammed his sandwich down on the table and walked briskly into his sitting room. He plopped down into his chair and proceeded to pack his pipe. With a flick of his wrist he lit the fragrant tobacco and began puffing away.

 

  John just sighed, knowing he wouldn’t be getting anything more out of his friend that evening. Pretty soon the whole flat would be filled with thick smoke, dense enough you couldn’t see through.

 

  “I shall be going then. Mary will be putting Rosie to bed soon.”

 

  “Do say goodnight to her for me. I have a feeling this case will be keeping me away for some time.” Sherlock took a large breath in from his pipe, allowing the smoke to slowly curl out over his lips.

 

  “Of course.” John smiled. No one had known the way Sherlock would react with a child. But any worries that they had proved to be wrong. Sherlock adored his Goddaughter, and doted on her like a father. “Oh, and Sherlock. Eat. You really do not want Mary coming ‘round to scold you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I took time out of classwork so I could write this. Can’t believe I actually finished it though. Still, hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> I am not sure when I will be able to get the next chapter out. I have two more weeks of school right now, but I am also moving out of my house and into my sister’s place. Which sadly they can’t get internet out there, because of the type they have to get in the country costs an arm and a leg. So I will have to post when I can get to the library.
> 
>  
> 
> Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.


	3. The Stage

    

 

 

  John sat in his chair, his attention on the newest edition of _The Strand._ His latest story had just been published; _The Owl Guardian._ The adventure that the story had been based off had taken them once again to Scotland. He had been tempted to call it _The Death of Lady MacBeth,_ but Mary had convinced him that the title might be a bit overdramatic.

 

  His daughter, Rosie, sat on the floor near the large window that took up most of the southern wall. She flipped through several books stacked at her side, stopping randomly on a page to read when something caught her attention. The books had been a gift from her Uncle Sherlock, and therefor were wholly unfit for a five-year-old child. Of course, Rosie Watson was anything but normal for a girl of her age. Sherlock claimed that her intelligence had been inherited from her mother; Mary of course agreed.

 

  Mary sat at her desk on the other side of the room, quietly writing out her correspondences. Letter after letter made its way into the finished pile. John knew that he would no doubt have to take them to the post later.

 

  It was a typical Sunday morning in the Watson household. Quiet, peaceful, and utterly devoid of murder.

 

  “Daddy, may we go see Uncle Sherlock today?” Rosie looked up from the book of poetry that she was currently reading, tilting her head at her father.

 

  “Uncle Sherlock is busy. He told me to send his regards, and apologies that he will not see you for a while.” John set his magazine on the small table beside him, making sure to mark his place beforehand. What he had told his daughter was a bit of an exaggeration, but he knew that had been his friend’s meaning two nights before.

 

  “Oh.” Rosie pouted a moment before looking back up with a bright smile. “Is he solving a case? I could help! I’ve been learning, see.” She shuffled through the books at her side, thrusting a worn, and well-read copy of a book on crime detectives towards her father.

 

  “Is that… where did you get that?!” John blinked down at the plain blue cover of the book, innocent by all appearances but for the embossed gold writing declaring the work to be, _The Great Chase: The Criminal Mind and Detective._

 

  “Sherlock gave it to her the last time we visited.” Mary turned as best she could in her seat. “Our daughter has shown an interest in crime solving.”

 

  “It is not proper.” John huffed and snatched the book from his daughter. “And interest or not, a woman cannot be a detective. It is just the way the world works.”

 

  Rosie teared up at her father’s declaration, sniffed a couple of times, and then stood. Gritting her teeth at her father, she balled her fists up at her side and stomped a single foot on the ground with enough force to topple the pile of books at her side.

 

  “Then I will be the first! Uncle Sherlock said that I could be whatever I want.” She lifted her chin in the air as though daring her father to refute her statement, and quickly stomped out of the room.

 

  John laughed at the little display of temper and shook his head, amused by the impudence of the girl. “We have a stubborn child.”

 

  “Good, she will need it in this world.” Mary stood from her chair and faced the back of her husband’s head.

 

  “Mary, it does no good putting ideas into her head. She will only be disappoint….” John turned in his seat to find wife glaring at him with her arms crossed over her chest.

 

  “You seem to conveniently forget who you married. I never fell in line with society, why should my daughter?” She marched her way towards the door, stopping just before leaving. “Change has to start somewhere. Mark my words, our daughters are the future.”

 

  John pressed a hand to his forehead as Mary left. He would have to make a trip to the florist’s again. At this rate he should just take out an account there, he would need it at least once a week it seemed.

 

* * *

 

 

  Inspector Lestrade slowly opened the door that led into the sitting room of 221 B. The landlady, Mrs Hudson, had warned him that Holmes hadn’t left the building in two days. When this happened the man in question could be found in either a state of undress or fluttering about wildly with his experiments.

 

  Today when he opened the door it was to a wall of tobacco smoke. Lestrade coughed and used his hat to whisk away the grey smoke. It took him a minute, but soon he was able to locate Holmes.

 

  The man sat perched on his chair by the fire, his pipe held firmly between his lips. This was the obvious location of the excess of smoke. The detective would periodically take a pull on the curved pipe, the embers in the bowl glowing a faint red before allowing the heavily scented smoke to curl around his lips.

 

  “Ah, Lestrade, come to enlighten me about our murderer?” Sherlock took another large puff of his pipe, adding another mouthful to the wall of smoke.

 

  “He’s killed again.” Lestrade watched as the man put down his pipe and picked himself up from the chair. Within a few strides of his long legs he had placed himself facing the opposite wall. Through the thick haze he could just make out where Holmes had carefully tacked the photographs and information he had sent him two days ago.

 

  “Do elaborate.” Sherlock remained facing the wall, hands held tightly behind his back.  This was the position he had spent much of the past couple of days in, hoping that something in the items would trigger something in his mind. Sadly, nothing seemed to be there.

 

  “Eloise Lael, a forty-eight-year-old spinster. She was found by her younger sister.” Lestrade watched Holmes closely, but the man gave nothing away. “She was in her garden, looked like she had been having tea.”

 

  Sherlock turned and went into his study, his eyes trailing over the groups of flowers strung across the table. “How was she killed?”

 

  “We are not sure, there are no marks. The leading thought is poison. Probably administered in her tea.” Following at a slower rate, Lestrade stepped into the study. The place always gave him an uneasy feeling, filled as it was with dusty books and strange instruments. He gave the bell jar with the skull a weak grimace.

 

  “Have tests been done… no, no wait, don’t answer that. Of course they haven’t. Well then, shall we?” Sherlock flung his cloak around his shoulders, heading out the door before Lestrade could speak. Halfway down the stairs he tossed back a question. “Were there flowers left?” No use wasting his time if the murder wasn’t even connected.

 

  “Yes, they are with the body still.” It was interesting to Lestrade how the man could convey hesitation without ever breaking his stride.

 

  In moments the two were outside, heading for the morgue.

 

* * *

 

 

  Sherlock lifted the eye lids one by one on Miss Lael and shook his head. He struck his finger into her mouth, running it along her teeth. All the while Lestrade stood aside cringing. He hated it when the man examined a body, he had little regard for the person. At least there wasn’t a family member present.

 

  “The tea has been retained, though I do not believe you need waste time testing it. There are no marks on the body, and with the tea there… well, there can be no other explanation.” Anderson stood off to the side, arms crossed over his chest. He didn’t understand why Holmes was brought in, the woman’s death seemed pretty straight forward.

 

  “It is forever a wonder how you manage to keep employment.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. It always astounded him how ignorant others could be when it comes to matters of the mind.

 

  “So you don’t think it was poison?” Lestrade ignored the clenched teeth of Anderson, it was the other man’s fault he had yet to learn to shut up around Holmes.

 

  “Oh, it was poison, but it wasn’t in the tea. I very much doubt she had a chance to drink it.” Moving on from Miss Lael’s mouth, Sherlock went to palpitating around the neck and ears.

 

  “If it wasn’t in the tea, then how do you purpose she was killed?” There was an edge to Anderson’s voice as he gestured towards the body.

 

  Sherlock’s hands slipped from the woman’s neck and down towards her right arm. He picked up the hand, splayed the fingers and pointed directly to the space between the index and middle fingers. “There is an injection mark just there.”

 

  “A needle?” Lestrade peered down at the small, dark spot in the fleshy bit of Miss Lael’s hand.

 

  “Of course a needle.” He tossed the hand back down on the table. “Considering she probably took a while to die, I would say she had been moved.”

 

  “How did you even think to look there?”

 

  Sherlock ignored Anderson and wiped off his gloved hand.

 

  “Why would the murderer move her?” Lestrade was really getting tired of this case, nothing made sense.

 

  “Why indeed.” Sherlock stepped back from the body, turning towards the table covered with instruments. He fingered the beribboned bunch of flowers. “Are these the flowers?”

 

  “Yes, they had been placed in a vase on the table this time.” Lestrade thought back to the scene of the crime. Miss Lael had looked so peaceful, as though she had just taken a nap in her garden. The flowers had been in stark contrast to the prim stiffness of Miss Lael’s clothing.

 

  “What makes you think this is connected to the other murders then? They could very well be a centerpiece.” Anderson directed his question towards Holmes, but it was Lestrade who responded.

 

  “We thought of that, but after talking to the victim’s sister we were informed of Miss Lael’s hatred towards flowers. According to her, she was a practical woman. She thought flowers to be a frivolous thing, and never bought or grew them.” Lestrade could very well believe it. Miss Lael had been stitched up to her chin in steel grey broadcloth, her tea set a basic white.

 

  “An unnecessary question, Anderson. No one would choose this arrangement for tea.” Sherlock grabbed the flowers and gave them a slight shake. Nettle, peony, and rosebud, a rather strange grouping.

 

  “How would you know?”

 

  Sherlock ignored Anderson once again, unwilling to rise to the other man’s bait. He gave Lestrade a look, clasped the flowers a bit tighter, and headed for the door. “Have everything sent to 221. And do inform me of any new developments.”

 

  Lestrade stood beside the body, his mouth open to speak, but Holmes was gone before he could utter a single word.

 

  “A fine detective that. What am I to do with the tea now?” Anderson allowed himself to kick the table leg in anger. Not enough to bring attention to the Detective Inspector, but enough to make himself feel better.

 

  “Dump it, I suppose.” Lestrade shrugged one shoulder. There was not much use in trying to find anything in the tea, if Sherlock Holmes said it was worthless it probably was.

 

  “Why do you always rely on him?” Another little kick, this time a bit sharper.

 

  “Because he always solves it, doesn’t he?” There was a point there, during the whole Moriarty affair, that he thought the detective would get it wrong. But the man had eventually proved himself.

 

  “Doesn’t look like it now.” If Anderson sounded sullen, it was because he was.

 

  “You’ve got to give the man time.” Picking up his discarded hat he placed it back on his head. “Look, we’ve got five women dead, and right now Sherlock Holmes is the best chance we got on from keeping that number going higher.

 

* * *

 

 

  Molly’s Posies was a small florist shop run by the recently widowed Mrs Blakesley. A relatively young woman, as well as pretty, she had the business of most of the gentlemen in London. She was currently mourning for her late husband, and as such many believed she should have handed over the running of the shop to her family. Mrs Blakesley was an unconventional woman and chose to continue working during mourning. For this John was glad, as he would trust no one else to prepare his flowers but her.

 

  John stepped into the shop, the bell echoing through the room. He took off his hat and gloves just as Mrs Blakesley entered.

 

  “Back again, Dr. Watson?” Molly gave the older man a side look as she stepped up to the counter. The good doctor was a regular of hers, coming and going on a weekly basis. Though lately he tended to grace her shop every couple of days. She found herself wondering about the man’s wife.

 

  “Hmm, I will be grateful once this child is born.” John laughed quietly and pulled his coin purse from his coat pocket. He didn’t remember having this much trouble with Mary when she had been carrying Rosie.

 

  “I highly doubt your troubles will end even then.” Molly bit the inside of her cheek when Dr. Watson threw her an unamused look, and went to work putting together his normal arrangement. “Would you like this delivered, or will you be taking it with you today?”

 

  “Delivery I think, I have a few errands I must see to before I return home.” John thought about his friend and the case that had been plaguing him. It had been a couple of days since he had checked in on the man, and figured that it was time to do so.

 

  “Of course, Dr. Watson. Shall I include a note?”

 

  It had been on the tip of his tongue to decline, but the thought of the recent murders changed his mind. No need in worrying his dear wife over nothing.

 

  “Yes, just sign it ‘From your devoted husband, John. Eternal apologies’.” John ignored the look that crossed the widow’s face. He didn’t need guff from any other woman than his wife.

 

  “Very good. Anything else?” This wasn’t the first time she had penned that note, the majority of the husbands that slunk their way into her shop asked for the same message. Perhaps she wouldn’t be so cynical about it all if she hadn’t written it multiple times for a single man.

 

  “You wouldn’t happen to have anything for a young child would you, say a five-year-old girl?” John counted out the payment and set it down on the counter. Rosie had refused to talk to him since that morning. Every time he came around she would just turn up her nose and stalk off to the nursery with a book tucked under her arm.

 

  “Children don’t tend to enjoy flowers. May I suggest a visit to Madam Keats? She has several reasonably priced dolls.” Molly added another spring of purple hyacinth to the arrangement, it seemed that this man might be in a bit more trouble than normal.

 

  “Thank you, I shall have a look.” Rosie had several dolls, most given to her by his sister and the old spinster that lived next door. Though not one of them were of the variety that could be played with, with their fine china faces and silk strand hair. Rosie kept them safely in a curio in the drawing room.

 

  “I shall have one of the boys deliver this straight away.” Molly cut off a length of ribbon to incorporate into the bunch. This was one of the reasons she had so many customers despite being a social pariah for her flouting the conventions of society; she always put that extra touch in her arrangements.

 

  “Thank you, Mrs Blakesley.” John placed his hat and gloves back on and gave the woman a short nod. “Good-day.”

 

  “Good-day, Dr. Watson.”

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock stood at his window, hands clasped tightly behind his back. Though his eyes were focused on the street below his mind was back in the morgue with the body of Miss Lael. For this reason he did not notice when John entered the flat.

 

  John stopped in the doorway of 221 B watching his friend. By the straight manner of his shoulders it was easy to tell that the man was agitated. Which could only mean he had yet to solve the case or… “Has there been another victim?”

 

  Sherlock jolted from his contemplation at the voice of his friend. With a sigh, he turned to look at the other man.

 

  “Yes. I have just returned from the morgue. He used poison this time, administered with a needle.” His mind ran over the various poisons that could have been used and grimaced. Miss Lael had died a very painful death indeed.

 

  “Not very consistent.” John stepped fully into the room, removing both hat and gloves. The two of them had several strange cases over the years, but the murders attached always followed a pattern.

 

  “Oh, but it is.”

 

  “Five murders committed five different ways? Doesn’t sound very consistent to me.” Murderers normally had a modus operandi, a particular way they killed, be it by knife, gun, or strangulation. It seemed odd to John that this murderer would chose such drastically different methods with each victim.

 

  “The murders themselves are immaterial.” Sherlock waved his had flippantly at the wall containing the photographs.

 

  “Immaterial? Are you listening to yourself? Five women are dead and you say it is immaterial?” John had known the man for years, known how insensitive he could be. Still, he found himself shocked at the coldhearted way he dismissed the victims.

 

  “Do listen, John. I never said the women were immaterial. No, it is not how they died that is important.” No, the means in which the women died had little to do with anything. The problem was, why?

 

  “Then what is?”

 

  “The stage.” The stage, a stage… the play… Sherlock shook his head and waited for his friend to catch up.

 

  “The what?”

 

  Apparently, John was taking a while to get there.

 

  “The stage. The first victim was strangled by her own stockings, placed nude within her bed. The second drowned, and likewise put to bed. The murder of Mrs Dupin had been committed elsewhere. She had been tied down and brutally beaten. Her body was then placed in her bed where her husband would find her.” Sherlock turned around and began to pace before the hearth. “Our newest victim had been found by her sister, set out in her garden with a cup of tea. But she would have to have been murdered somewhere else and moved.”

 

  “So our murderer is what, deliberately setting a scene?” The idea was eerily familiar, and sent a chill up his spine.

 

  “What else would you call it?” Sherlock knew there were two types of murderers in the world. The first kind were the passionate, murderers made of circumstance. Their actions were driven by passion and anger in the heat of the moment. A wife learning of her husband’s infidelity, a gambler made low at the tables, or a young man bullied in the streets. But the second kind, these were the most dangerous. They thought over what they did, planned it, and executed it with precision. That was the serial killer, even if there was no reason why, each murder was planned. The murderer always had something to achieve.

 

  “But why, what purpose does it serve?” John felt a cold wind at the look that crossed his friend’s face.

 

  “To gain someone’s attention.” Why else would the murderer leave flowers with each body, or take the time make a scene? The flowers were more than a calling card, and these murders more than just the need to appease a bloodlust.

 

  Whose… yours perhaps?” He didn’t like where this was going. It was inevitable that the two of them would make enemies in their line of work. But the problem was that their enemies tended to be a little extreme.

 

  “I don’t know.” That had been his first thought as well, but if that was the case… No, the murders presented him with an intriguing puzzle, but there was nothing that outright shouted Sherlock Holmes in them.

 

  “Moriarty…” John felt bile rise at the mere thought of his name. It was a wonder how one man could have caused so many problems for them.

 

  “No, he is dead. I made sure of it. This is… whomever our murderer is he is playing a game. We only need to figure out the rules.” Sherlock had momentarily thought of the man, but Moriarty was dead. There was no doubt about that.

 

  Putting the man out of his mind, Sherlock moved across the room and pulled a book down from his shelf. He handed it out to John with a short grin.

 

  “What is this, for the case?” John curled his fingers around the thick tome, taking it from his friend.

 

  “No, it’s for Rosie. I could see the leg of a doll peeking out from your coat. I would be right in guessing you have said or done something to upset her?” He waited with his hands behind his back until John nodded. “She would enjoy the book more than the doll. Your daughter is highly intelligent for one so young. It is important to feed her mind.”

 

  “Look, Sherlock, while I am happy that you have taken such an interest in my daughter…”

 

  “Why wouldn’t I? She is my Goddaughter after all.” Sherlock didn’t know whether or not to be offended that his best friend thought he would be indifferent to Rosie. Sure, he had not shown all that much interest in children before now. But none of them had been… well none of them had been family.

 

  “Of course. But… you are giving her too many hopes. This is a man’s world…”

 

  “And she is nothing more than a girl, is that what you are getting at?” Sherlock shook his head and pushed past John. The man never seemed to learn.

 

  “Well, yes.” John spoke as though it should have been obvious. The world was run by men, that was just the way it was. It didn’t mean he agreed that it should be that way, but his feelings on the matter didn’t change things. He didn’t want his daughter heartbroken when she eventually learned about the real world.

 

  “I can see why Mary is always angry with you.” He felt sorry for Mary sometimes, and for Rosie. John was his friend, but the man could be so obtuse at times.

 

  “I… we are not talking about that. We are talking about you giving my daughter books about crime.” John huffed and waved the book in his hands as though to make his point.

 

  “I have given her nothing inappropriate.” He pointed to the book in John’s hand. “And, you can have nothing against a book of children’s stories.”

 

  John looked down at the book in his hands, his eyes running over the embossed title declaring the contents to be nothing more than fairytales. He gave Sherlock a sheepish look.

 

  “Even so, what I said stands.”

 

  Sherlock sighed and ran a single hand over his slicked hair.

 

  “John, your wife is a former assassin. You were never going to have a simple, shrinking violet for a daughter.”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, sorry it took a while for me to get this out. Between finishing up finals for my final semester in college, and moving out of my house I have been a bit busy. Also my muse died for a while, stress will do that I guess. But I’m back, sort of. I can only update when I can get to the library right now, and I now have a job. Still, I hope to get a few more chapters out this summer.
> 
>  
> 
> Second, I know we have yet to have Sherlock and Molly meet, but that will happen next chapter. 
> 
>  
> 
> Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Author's Note:**

> So I have been working on this awhile. This will be my first, but certainly not my last, Victorian au. I guess it can even be called a flower-shop AU as well. 
> 
> Now, no Sherlock in this chapter, but he will appear in the next. I’m not sure how long this will be, but hopefully as pretty good length. There will also NOT be any Mary bashing, or Adler bashing. We have female friendships in this story besides our Sherlolly romance. 
> 
> This is also dedicated to IdrisSmith, as she was part of the inspiration for this, and has been a huge help in developing this story. Plus I tease her with tidbits too often, so…
> 
> Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.


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